


Year 2013

by Luna_Hart



Series: Snapshots [7]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Brock can't catch a break, Brock meets Winter, Domestic Fluff, Family Feels, Forgiveness, HYDRA Husbands, Homophobia, Hurt Brock Rumlow, Hurt Jack Rollins, Hurt Winter, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marriage, Missions Gone Wrong, STRIKE finds out, The Winter Soldier - Freeform, Torture, Weddings, all the feelings, good guy Brock Rumlow, good guy Jack Rollins, hail HYDRA, original character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-04 21:21:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11563575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna_Hart/pseuds/Luna_Hart
Summary: A collection of moments in the lives of Brock Rumlow and Jack Rollings:When STRIKE and Brock's foster mother found out. When Brock went missing on a mission. When Brock and Jack got married. When Brock met Alexander Pierce. When Brock and Jack first met the Winter Soldier.





	1. January

“Jesus!” Brock nearly had a heart attack as he turned around in the locker room after mustering out to find Hunter, Jennings, Evans, and Murphy standing between him and the door. He hadn’t even heard them come in and cursed himself for being so sloppy. 

“The fuck you all want?” He snapped. None of them said anything for a long moment and Brock was unnerved to say the least. 

“I’m disappointed in you, Rumlow,” Jennings said frostily, crossing her arms over her chest. The other three had similar looks on their faces. 

“What now?” Brock exclaimed, irritated. He was in no mood for this. He and STRIKE Echo had only just returned from a long mission overseas and all Brock wanted to do was to go home, curl up on the couch with Jack and a glass of wine, and decompress. But no, nothing is ever that easy. 

“Extremely disappointed.” Murphy added, nodding towards Brock’s front. 

“Wha—,” Brock sputtered and then followed Murphy’s gaze down to his chest. He paled, seeing one of the silver rings that he and Jack had exchanged over Christmas hanging next to his dog tags.

Jack hadn’t been on the mission, currently nursing a concussion. It was rare that they were weren’t dispatched together. Brock could count on one hand the number of times it had happened, usually due to injury. So Jack was on the sidelines and Brock had wanted something to take on the mission with him. It was stupid and careless, and now could cost them everything. 

He scrambled to tuck them back under his shirt, but he knew that the damage was already done. “Uh, well, hah, you see…,” Brock scrambled to find an excuse, a reason, an explanation.

“You know, I expected this kinda thing from you,” Evans said, hands tucked in his pockets like he hadn’t a care in the world but his eyes were hard. “But not Rollins. I expected better from him.” 

If Brock was nervous before, he was flat out panicking now. His mouth opened and closed but he couldn’t find the words. He flushed hot and then cold. None of his teammates looked armed, but that didn’t mean anything. They were all professionals, they didn’t need guns to get the job done. 

“Jesus,” Hunter said, rolling his eyes. “You’re gonna send him into a panic attack.” He took a few steps forward and Brock slide a foot back, finding his centre. His hands clenched into fists at his side. If it came to a fight, Brock wasn’t going to go down easily. 

Hunter stopped, raising his hands out to the side. “Easy boss,” he said gently. “We’ve got your back.”

“Yeah,” Jennings said, pushing off the wall and coming to stand beside Hunter. “We’re on your side. Why do you think Abbot was so interested in transferring to our London base last year? Or why Patterson suddenly retired? They were going after you. Both of you. You think we were about to let that happen?”

Brock sucked in a breath, his heart hammering in his chest. He struggled to comprehend exactly what they were telling him. Was this actually happening?

“I mean we’ve already put so much work into the two of you. It would be a shame having to break in someone new now,” Hunter drawled, crossing his arms over his broad chest. 

“How….how,” he stammered, practically hearing his mental gears shifting without a clutch. He was pulling a complete mental one-eighty, previously expecting to have his body dumped in an alley out by the docks. 

“How long have we known?” Jennings finished for him. “I knew for sure at Blake’s birthday party, on the Vegas trip.”

“Bogota,” Hunter supplied, a small smirk playing on his face. 

“Poland,” Evans said softly, almost reluctantly, as if the mere mention of the place would bring back all the bad memories of that mission gone wrong. 

“Christmas party last year,” Murphy added from the back of the room. Hunter snorted and Jennings rolled her eyes. “What?” Murphy protested. “So I was a little slow on the uptake, I got there in the end!”

“Anyways,” Jennings interrupted. “You didn’t invite us to the wedding, and that is just unacceptable.”

“Oh, umm,” Brock was still trying to catch up. “We haven’t actually…got married yet. We were planning on getting the papers done in a couple months, quiet like.”

Jennings squealed. She full on squealed. Brock jumped he was so startled. He didn’t even know she was capable of making a sound like that. “Okay! Oh, this is perfect!” Jennings giggled, which only unnerved Brock further. “We are so having a party!”

“Okay, hold on—,” Brock started to protest but Jennings talked right over him. “No, don’t worry about a thing! I’ll organize everything! We can have it at Evans’ flat, he has tons of room. And Hunter can get ordained online so you can have the ceremony and sign the papers right there! I have to make some calls!” 

And with that she scampered away, dragging Murphy out with her. Evans chuckled. “I’d just…let her have it. She’ll be discrete, don't worry.” 

“Yeah, discrete,” Brock muttered. Evans laughed again and left the locker room. Brock turned to Hunter, who gave him a half smile and a shrug.

“Like I said, we’ve got your back,” Hunter said, stepping forward to clap a hand on Brock’s shoulder. “You’ve always had ours. Now it’s just our turn.” 

Brock nodded, unable to trust his voice. This was something he and Jack had talked about; how, if, and when to tell STRIKE about their relationship. Brock was always unsure, always a little untrusting. It turns out that he had nothing to worry about. This went above and beyond even the best outcome he had entertained. Hunter gave his shoulder a final squeeze and left the locker room. Brock took a deep breath. He had a lot to tell Jack when he got home. 

 

 

A couple hours later and Brock was home. “Jack?” He called out as he stepped inside, tossing his jacket in the general direction of the coat rack and toeing off his boots. 

“Jack?” Brock paused to listen, hearing the soft hiss of the shower. 

“You will not believe what happened today,” he shouted as he picked up the mail, leafing through bills and promotional coupons.

A knock at the door grabbed his attention. “Don’t use all the hot water,” he yelled over his shoulder as he walked to the door. “Oh, and what did you want for dinner? I was thinking Chinese—,”

Any other words slipped from Brock’s tongue as he opened the door. She stood right in front of him, bundled in a thick wool coat and bright red scarf. Her greying hair curled around her face and her eyes snapped. She looked pissed. 

“Nona?” Brock breathed.

“Don’t you ‘Nona’ me, young man!” Helen Sommer snapped. “Brock Rumlow, I haven’t had a single word from you in the past four months besides a text on Christmas, a text! Not to mention the fact that I had to find out you were getting married from the sister of your fiancé and are you going to invite me in or not!?” 

“Uhhh,” Brock said unintelligently as he swung the door open for his foster mother. Helen stepped inside, looking about with a calculating eye. She then turned on Brock.

“Well?” She demanded.

“Well what?” Brock asked. “Wait, how are you even here? You should have called, I would have picked you up from the airport.”

“If you’d had a complete stranger call you up out of the blue and ask if you had heard anything about the wedding plans of a certain someone as she was completely in the dark as to what your plans where, and then when your multiple calls go unanswered, you’d pack a bag and find out for yourself too!” Brock winced. He had been out of the country on SHIELD business the last week and had shut his phone off. Roaming charges after all. 

“So, is it true?” Helen continued, her gaze never wavering. Brock felt like he was a teenager again, being disciplined for stealing pills from her medicine cabinet. 

“Is what true?” Brock said, stalling for time.

“Don’t you give me sass, boy,” Helen snapped. “Are you engaged to be married or aren’t you?” 

“Uhhh….yes?” Brock said hesitantly, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He had never been able to convincingly lie to the woman, not ever. Even now, when a good chunk of his job was lying, he still didn’t think he could pull it off. 

Small but surprisingly strong hands grabbed him and he was pulled down to Helen’s level. She gave him a tight hug before letting him go.

“That is just wonderful. Now, when did you propose? I want details.” Helen asked, a warm smile on her face. “At Christmas,” Brock answered. 

“And how long have the two of you been together?” 

“Six years?” Brock said hesitantly, ending it like a question as he braced himself. Helen stared at him, that warm smile slipping away. “Six years?” She whispered incredulously. “Six years and I’m just finding out about this now!?” She snapped, volume increasing as she cuffed Brock upside the head. 

“Ow,” Brock said, rubbing his ear. 

“You didn’t think that all this would be something I would have be interested in knowing about?” Helen continued, crossing her arms over her chest. 

“Sorry,” Brock said weakly. If he had been paying proper attention, he would have heard the shower shut off in the background. As it was, he was a bit preoccupied. 

“Well, what’s done is done,” she sighed, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Are you happy?”

“I am,” Brock said sincerely, a smile of his own pulling at his lips. “I really am, Nona.”

“Then that is all that matters,” Helen stated, giving Brock a warm smile. “Now then, what’s her name?”

Brock paled. Oh, right. Shit. 

He had never come out to his foster mother, keeping that side of his life a secret. She held to very traditional values. Brock had always been afraid of how she would take it, not to mention he had spent half his life in denial of his preferences. Once he had moved away to Washington DC, after being recruited by SHIELD, it had been easier to just avoid speaking of it altogether. Now it seemed like he had no choice. 

“Ah, yes…ummm…well…,” Brock stumbled. “About that, I—,”

A door clicked open behind them and Brock turned to see Jack walked out of the shower, hair wet and slicked back with a towel slung low around his hips. The other man pulled up short at the sight of a visitor. 

“Uhh…hi?” Jack said roughly, confusion laced heavily through his words. Brock sighed. 

“Nona, this is Jack,” he said quietly, turning back around to his foster mother. “My…fiancé.” 

“Oh,” Helen said, her face frozen in shock. Her eyes flicked back and forth between Brock and Jack. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. A beat of silence passed before she turned on her heels and walked out of the apartment, the door clicking shut behind her. 

“Fuck,” Brock breathed, turning back to look at Jack. The taller man said nothing, still looking confused. 

“Fuck,” Brock said again, jamming his feet into his boots and running out after Helen. 

 

 

It seemed like a long time before Jack heard the click of the door again. He was lounging on the couch, his back to the door with a book in his hands. 

“You know,” Jack drawled. “I usually make it a habit of wearing pants when meeting future in-laws but I guess nothing with you has been strictly traditional so far so…,” Jack trailed off as he looked over his shoulder and caught sight of Brock. 

The other man stood in the foyer to the apartment, looking completely lost. “How could your sister do that?” He asked, eyes finally landing on Jack. 

“How could she stick her nose so far into our business that she contacted my foster mom and asked what our fucking wedding plans were!?” Brock ended in a near shout, his eyes brimming with hurt. “She had no right. No fucking right!”

“Brock…” Jack began but the other man talked right over him. “She’s gone,” Brock said, looking over at Jack with wide eyes. He shrugged his shoulders, planting his hands on his hips, eyes staring intently at the floorboards.

“She’s gone, she just left.” Brock finished with a shaky breath. Jack got to his feet, book falling forgotten on the floor. He only a few steps in before the older man side stepped him and strode into the bedroom, door slamming behind him. 

Jack sighed and followed. He quietly closed the bedroom door behind him, walking over to where Brock had sprawled out on the bed. The older man lay on his back, hands behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling. 

Jack sat beside him on the edge of the bed. “Don’t say a fucking thing,” Brock snapped, eyes still fixed on the white plaster overhead. 

“Wasn’t gonna,” Jack said softly. 

He tucked his hand around the inside of Brock’s knee, thumb gently rubbing against the inside of the joint. Jack took a deep breath, calming the anger that was clawing the inside of his chest. Brock couldn’t seem to catch a fucking break. After everything the man had already been through, he didn’t deserve this. 

They sat quietly for a long while before Brock finally sat up, swiping a hand across his eyes. “You want Chinese for dinner?” He said, hopping off the bed and leaving the bedroom without a glance back, leaving Jack once again to follow. He caught up with Brock in the kitchen, a takeout menu in his hands. Jack leaned against the counter beside him and waited. 

Brock fidgeted before casting a quick glance up at him. “I don’t wanna talk about it,” he mumbled. “That’s okay,” Jack answered, crossing his arms across his chest. “I’m fine,” Brock protested. Jack knew Brock was lying but wasn’t about to call him out on it. 

“STRIKE knows,” Brock said abruptly. “About us. Hunter, Jennings, Murphy, and Evans. They cornered me after debrief. Jennings wants to throw us a party.”

Jack chuckled softly. “I told yah they’d figure it out.”

“Yeah,” was all Brock said in reply, flipping through the menu without really seeing it. “I put her through hell growing up,” Brock said, so quietly that Jack almost missed it. “She had every reason to toss me back in the system, but she didn’t and this is how I repay her.” 

“She’ll come around,” Jack said, not knowing what else to say. Brock just shook his head, planting his hands on the countertop. Jack reached up and gripped Brock by the back of his neck, thumbing the soft skin under his ear. He squeezed gently. 

Brock cleared his throat, snatching up the menu again. “You want Szechuan chicken?” He said, his deflection on the subject anything but subtle. 

“Sure,” Jack said, not pushing it. He knew Brock would talk about it when he was ready. All he could do is be there for him. He crowded up behind Brock, tucking his chin on Brock’s shoulder as the shorter man leaned back against him. 

“Sounds good.”


	2. February

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: This chapter contains mildly graphic descriptions of torture and injuries and may be disturbing to some readers.

"Shit," Jack cursed as he grabbed Hunter by the scruff of the neck and yanked him down behind a stack of pallets as bullets pinged off the concrete above their heads. 

 Jack popped up over the crates, returning fire blindly before ducking back to relative safety. This mission had been fucked from the beginning, but now it had really gone tits up. They had been sent in to retrieve a stolen SHIELD hard drive. SHIELD intel suspected that Georges Bartoc was involved, who was currently number three on the SHIELD watch list, and had sent Rogers in along with STRIKE Alpha and Bravo.

"STRIKE, report !" Rogers voice snapped over the comms. 

"Rollins here, with Hunter," Jack gasped, ducking further down as automatic weapons fire splintered the crates to his left. "Pinned down on the west side of the docks. Still alive." 

"Mostly," Hunter bit out through clenched teeth. Jack turned to see him clutching at his shoulder, blood running down his arm in rivulets. Jack whipped out a pressure bandage and started wrapping up the hole in the other man’s shoulder. "Could use a hand here."

"Well, we could use about three," Brock's voice crackled in Jack's ear, overlapping with multitudes of gunfire. "East side, they're coming from fucking everywhere." 

"On my way," Rogers said over comms and suddenly Jack heard a huge bang. More gunfire erupted around Jack and he hunkered down as men shouted and screamed. There was a metallic gonging sound which reverberated through Jack's eardrums. It was like being on the inside of a church bell.  Then silence. 

Jack peaked up over the splintered pallets to find Captain Rogers surrounded by unconscious mercs. He glanced back at Jack, nodding curtly before sprinting down the docks. 

“Show-off,” Hunter grumbled. Jack just shook his head and helped Hunter to his feet, giving the other man a quick once over. Hunter swayed a little, looking woozy from blood loss. 

"You good?" 

Hunter nodded, slipping a new clip into his rifle with a snap. "Let's move.”

Jack and Hunter were making their way around towards the east end of the docks when Rogers voice cracked through the comms again, grim and flat sounding. 

"I'm at the east docks. Dillion and Fritz are dead. There's no sign of Richfield or Rumlow." 

 

 

Jack clenched his jaw hard enough that his teeth creaked as he snipped the sleeve away from Hunter's arm. He pointedly didn't look down to the end of the jet where Dillion and Fritz's bodies lay in body bags. They had been given a new intel team for this mission. It had been nothing but misinformation from the start and the sheer stupidity on the part of their handlers was the reason that they were in such a cluster-fuck now. Someone was gonna pay when Jack got back stateside.

It had been three hours since Brock and Richfield went missing. They had combed over the docks inch by inch but there was no trace. He half listened to Rogers checking in with headquarters down in the cockpit. STRIKE was deadly silent, patching up their hurts as their eyes kept flicking from Rogers to Jack. 

"Hey, hey, I got him, I got Rumlow!" Murphy shouted from the cockpit where he had been silently working on finding Brock through his tracking implant. It was standard issue for all STRIKE personnel and Jack had never been more glad for it in his career. 

He slapped Hunter's hand on the gauze pad he had been holding to his shoulder and sprinted to the front of the jet, brushing past Rogers and coming to stand behind Murphy. 

"See?" Murphy said, pointing to a small flashing dot on the screen. "They must have put him in a boat or something, went up the coast past the border.”

“What about Richfield?” Rogers asked from behind him. Jack didn't even glance back, hands white-knuckling the back of the pilots chair. Murphy shook his head. “I can’t get a signal from his tracker, but it would be a good bet that they are together, right?”

Jack watched as Murphy’s fingers flew over the keyboards, pulling up satellite footage of the area. “Looks like a warehouse of some sort. We could be there in ten." He finished, twisting around to look up and back to Jack. 

"Get us in the air," Jack commanded as he turned around and almost collided with a wall of muscle. 

“That’s not your call. SHIELDs pulled the plug," Rogers said. "They want us back in DC to debrief and reassess."

"We're leaving without them?" Murphy questioned, glancing between Jack and the Captain. Jack's eyes flashed and he glared up into Rogers face. That wasn't going to happen. Jack was going to make sure that it didn't. 

"I don't like it any more than you do," Rogers said with a grimace. "But let's take a step back and be realistic. We have no intel, no backup. We don't know how many men they have. We are down three ourselves, four with Hunter--,"

"I'm good," Hunter said, standing up with grim determination. "I'm good to go." Rogers looked uncomfortable, torn between his conscious and orders from up the chain. 

Jack took a step towards Rogers, eyes hard and giving nothing away, even as his heart hammered in his chest. "STRIKE takes care of its own," Jack stated, voice flat and controlled. "We're not leaving."

Rogers hesitated. Jack held eye contact, not wavering. Rogers may outrank him on paper but he knew STRIKE would stand behind him if it came to it. They weren't about to leave Brock behind. 

"Okay," the Captain conceded. "Okay, let's go get them."

 

 

Hunter winced as he hiked his tac vest back on. Jack kept his eye on him, passing over a bottle of pills from the first aid kit along with a bottle of water as Cap landed the jet in a small clearing a few clicks away from Rumlow's GPS location. 

"Hunter, you stay with the jet," Rogers began as he strapped on his helmet.

"Not happening," Hunter said, clipping his rifle to his tac vest. Jack glanced up, sensing trouble brewing. Rogers bristled. "Not a request, agent. Stay on comms, we may need air support." 

Hunter looked up, his jaw clenched defiantly. His eyes flicked just past Rogers shoulder where Jack stood. Jack ever so slightly shook his head.

Hunter blew out a harsh breath through his nose and unclipped his rifle. "Yes sir," he snapped. Rogers shot him another glance before making his way down the ramp to join Murphy and Gallagher. 

Jack clapped a hand on Hunter's un injured shoulder as he passed. Hunter gave a short nod before making his way to the nose of the jet. 

Jack trotted down the ramp, taking a deep breath to settle himself. He let himself slip into combat mode, compartmentalizing his feelings, tucking away all of his fears and doubts away in the back of his head. 

The ramp whirred shut and the jet rippled and disappeared as Hunter engaged the cloaking device. Jack fell in behind Rogers as they carefully made their way towards the warehouse. 

 

 

“Turn right," Jack whispered, eyes glancing down to the screen on his wrist displaying Brock's GPS tracker. It hadn't moved once, and they had found little to no resistance with their breach of the building.Two mercs had been dealt with already. The other STRIKE members had been sent to sweep the rest of the warehouse while Jack and Rogers followed the tracker. 

Rogers signalled for a halt as they reached the corner. He shot a quick glance around the corner and looked back at Jack. He held up his hand, extending his fore- and middle finger. Two hostiles. 

Rogers took a deep breath and slung his shield down from his shoulder. Jack adjusted the grip on his rifle. A curt nod in response to Rogers questioning look and they sprung into action. 

Rogers shield snapped out, knocking the man on the right clean off his feet while Jack took aim at the second, dropping him before he could even raise his weapon, a bullet hole nestled between his eyebrows. 

Rogers caught his shield on the rebound, shooting a look at Jack, which he ignored. He took position on one side of the door and waited for Rogers call. "On three," the Captain breathed. "One, two...," 

With a massive kick the door splintered in and Jack and Rogers burst into the room, sweeping it with practised efficiency. Jack's heart sunk. 

The room was empty. 

Jack and Rogers spread out through the room, combing for clues. Nothing. Jack cursed under his breath as the rest of STRIKE came in over the comms, saying the rest of the building was clear, two pirates in custody, and no sign of Rumlow or Richfield.

"Rollins." Jack spun around at the sound of his name and felt his chest tighten when he realized what Rogers held in his hand.

It was a SHIELD issued dermal tracker, splattered red with blood. 

 

 

  
Brock crawled his way reluctantly back into consciousness. His head hurt. A lot. A dull pain was throbbing at the back of his skull. He squinted, trying to see, but everything was pitch black. A sliver of light shone a little ways away, looking like the crack under a door.

Brock shifted and realized his hands were cuffed together.

Brock took a deep breath and tried to recall what had happened. The docks. He had been pinned down with Dillion, Fritz, and Richfield from STRIKE Bravo. He had called in their position, requesting backup. Things got a little hazy after that, like trying to see through a fogged-up window. From the state of his head it seemed someone knocked him out, which didn’t make any sense seeing Brock couldn't figure out how someone would have managed to sneak up behind him.

The back of his shoulder stung something fierce. When Brock reached a hand around to feel, it came away damp and sticky. They had cut out his tracker. Brock cursed under his breath. Now he couldn't just rely on STRIKE to come pick him up.

He sat up, squeezing his eyes shut as a wave of dizziness crashed over him. He definitely had a concussion.

He searched himself, looking for any weapon they might have missed in their search. They had stripped him down to his t-shirt and cargo pants. They have taken everything; his boots, his belt, all his tac gear, even his watch and dog tags were gone.

He slowly got to his feet, fighting back the nausea that bubbled up his throat. He tested the cuffs on his wrists, but they were solid and wouldn’t budge.

Footsteps echoed and suddenly bright lights flashed on, blinding him. The door burst open and two men rushed in.

Before Brock could even react, one of the men slammed a wooden baton into his stomach. He doubled over, gasping. A blow to his back sent him to the ground, knees cracking against the unforgiving concrete.

They grabbed his hands and snapped a lead of chain onto the cuffs around his wrists.

The whirring sound of a winch reached his ears as he gasped for air, and he heard chains rattling. After a brief moment the chain they had attached to his cuffs shortened, tightened, and then began to haul his arms above his head.

He struggled to no avail. The chain kept ascending until he was hanging with his full weight on his arms, toes just barely brushing the floor.

With calculated efficiency, the two men cut away Brock’s clothes. Then, as quickly as they came, they left. The lights shut off, leaving Brock hanging in complete darkness.

 

 

 

  
Jack strode through Ops, leaving Rogers and the rest of STRIKE scrambling to catch up. He barely paid Assistant Director Hill any attention as she moved to intercept them. “You ignored a direct order, Captain,” she snapped, although her eyes were locked onto Jack. She had never liked him very much.

Jack ignored Rogers’ explanations and strode towards the head of their new intel team. Richards was his name, or Reynolds, something like that. The man’s eyes widened and he squeaked as Jack grabbed him by the front of his shirt and slammed him into the wall.

“Stand down, Rollins!” Hill barked but Jack paid her no mind, focusing his icy glare on the man trembling in front of him.

“What happened?” Jack said quietly, almost calmly. The man swallowed and stuttered. “We…we…the intel was good, I…”

“Bullshit!” Jack snarled, tightening his grip on the mans collar. The other tech agents edged away from him. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Hill striding towards him, her face furious. “Two dead, two missing doesn’t equal good fucking intel.”

A large hand landed on his shoulder and he looked up into understanding blue eyes. “Enough,” Rogers said quietly.

Jack clenched his jaw but let the man go. “They knew we were coming,” he said, eyes snapping from Rogers to Hill in barely controlled fury. “They knew everything.”

“We had a leak,” the analyst gasped, flinching as Jack’s gaze snapped back to him. “Our intel was good. Someone tipped them off.”

“We are doing everything we can to find the leak and our men,” Jack forced himself to pay attention to Hill as she continued. “Captain Rogers, you have temporary command of STRIKE,” Hill continued.

A frosty silence demented on Ops. Hill had just bypassed the regular chain of command, skipping over Jack for Rogers. STRIKE bristled. Hunter looked downright murderous, jaw clenched and eyes flashing. Rogers, to his credit, looked uncomfortable.

Jack didn’t give a shit right now. He stopped paying attention to Hill as she nattered on, his mind whirring. A leak. Someone in SHIELD had tipped off the mercs they were coming. But who?

 

 

 

  
Brock raised his head with a barely stifled groan as the lights flashed back on and the door creaked open. He had been hanging for hours. The muscles in his shoulders screamed, his joints hyperextending.

He blinked, clearing spots from his eyes as a face slowly came into focus.  "Richfield?" Brock whispered. Richfield, STRIKE's Bravo Team lead, the man who was suppose to have been watching their back on the mission, smirked. 

"You son of a bitch!" Brock snarled, struggling against the chains. 

"It's nothing personal, Rumlow," Richfield said calmly, like he had not a care in the world. “They’re just paying me really well.”

“Where’s Fritz and Dillion?” Brock asked, afraid he already knew the answer. His blood ran cold as Richfield shrugged.

“They were….well, shall we say, expendable.”

“You killed your own men,” Brock stated flatly. He flexed his shoulder muscles to try and relieve some of the tension. Richfield shrugged again, taking a few steps towards Brock.

“I held no loyalty to them, or to SHIELD. It’s just business. And speaking of business,” Richfield said with a small smirk, still moving forward. “My employers want to know when Hector Flores is going to be transferred from SHIELD custody.”

Brock narrowed his eyes. Flores was number four on SHIELD’s red list and had been finally captured last week. His transfer to the British Government was supposed to take place in two weeks. Brock had been put in charge of the exchange, arranging the details and the security.

“And I,” Richfield continued. “Well, I want to know everything else."

He took a final step, standing right in front of Brock. "I'm sure there are many people who would pay a very high price for SHEILD secrets, and I know you have more than a few in that pretty little head of yours, Commander.” 

Brock chuckled. “Fuck you.”

“Oh no, Commander. Fuck yo—,” Richfield hadn’t even finished his sentence before Brock viciously snapped his head forward, cracking it against the bridge of Richfield’s nose. He stumbled back with a curse. Brock had a split second of victory before the man smashed his fist across his face. 

"You'll regret that," Richfield growled as blood ran down his chin. He reached up and snapped his nose back into place with a crunch, before stalking over to the door. 

Brock spat blood and grinned, teeth stained red. “Bring it.”

His smile faltered a little as the previous two men returned, wheeling a long metal table with a bulky shape covered in a cloth. Richfield smirked at him and yanked off the cloth, revealing a car battery with multiple leads and clamps attached to it.

Brock swallowed, keeping his face impassive and bored looking as his heart hammered in his chest. 

 

 

 

  
Thwack, thwack, thwack. Jack's face was unreadable as he drove Evans back across the mats, batons a blur. Evans stumbled, barely dodging a blow to his face and caught Jack's sticks in a double cross guard. A quick twist and he disarmed Jack. A sweep of his leg and Jack landed flat on his back, the breath knocked out of him. 

Jack sucked in a painful breath as he rolled to his feet. Evans had never managed to drop him until today, and that was the fourth time in a row. "Again," he wheezed.

"Fuck that, man," Evans gasped, wiping sweat from his eyes. "I'm done. You're done, look at you." 

Jack clenched his jaw, but didn't argue. His arms were shaking, muscles so exhausted he probably would have trouble raising them above his head tomorrow. His shirt was soaked, sweat dripping from his hair. He had spent two hours on the heavy bags before sparring with Evans, all on top of his regular work out. 

It had been a week. A fucking week since Brock went missing and they had nothing to go on. The best intelligence agency in the goddam world and they had nothing. What made it worse was that there was nothing Jack could do but wait and worry. He hated the helpless feeling, so he burned himself out with long workouts and sparring sessions. 

"We'll get him back,” Evans said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "STRIKE takes care of its own, yeah?”

Jack nodded, not completely trusting his voice. Just then, the gym door burst open with a loud bang and Jack glanced up as Hunter tumbled into the room. 

“They found him."

 

 

 

  
Brock opened his eyes and immediately shut them again. He groaned, deep in his throat.

Strong arms wrapped around him from behind and Brock sighed, contentedly snuggling deeper into the covers. 

It was still dark, the sun having not crested the horizon yet. The bedroom was swathed in shadows, the lights of the city twinkling through the window. Brock hummed as Jack's lips pressed against the back of his neck, his morning stubble scratching against Brock's skin. 

“Was so scared I had lost you," Jack's voice rumbled by his ear. Brock reached up and wrapped a hand around Jack's bicep, comfortingly. Lightning flashed outside the window, briefly illuminating the room. Brock shivered, feeling cold.

"Looks like a storms rolling in," Jack yawned. He pulled the covers up higher up around them. "Gonna stay here all day," Jack murmured, snuggling closer. Brock smiled. Another flash of lighting crashed through the room, sending tremors racing through Brock’s muscles.

He felt so cold. He shivered again and felt Jack’s arms tighten around him. Another flash of lightening. Brock frowned, not hearing any thunder. Why wasn’t there any thunder? He heard running water. Had he left the tap on?

Tremors rocked his body and Brock’s world imploded.

 

 

 

Brock snapped back to reality with a gasp as icy water splashed over him. He slumped, arms numb and tingling with loss of circulation. His feet dangled in a bucket of water, used with the intention of amplifying the volts of electricity they had been forcing through his body.

“You back?” Brock felt a hand grip his chin and he was forced to look up at Richfield. His vision swam. It was hard to focus. “You disappeared there for a while,” Richfield said.

Brock wasn’t sure how long he had been here. He guessed at least a week, but it all blurred together in a wash of pain. His head felt blurry from the drugs they had forced into his system, trying to confuse him into talking while also keeping him complacent and weak. His right shoulder was on fire. The small part of his brain still barely thinking rationally supplied the word _dislocation_ to the rest of his brain.

The rest of his body was a mottled canvas of cuts, bruises and burns. Most would scar, something that Brock’s vanity was irked about. He was having trouble breathing, from the waterboarding or the suspected broken ribs, Brock couldn't be sure.

“I must say, I’m impressed,” Richfield was still talking. “You’ve impressed me, Rumlow, and that’s not an easy thing to do.”

Brock let the man’s droning voice fade away. He didn’t want to listen to it anymore. He was so tired. They hadn’t let him sleep for longer than a few minutes at a time. He began to retreat back into his mind, into the sanctuary he had been taught to build back when he first joined SHIELD.

It was a technique that SHIELD taught to its field agents as a way to withstand interrogation. You build a safe place in your mind, a memory or a fantasy, a scenario that you could retreat into when things got ugly.

Brock kept his sanctuary simple; in bed with Jack, eating breakfast with Jack, sparring with Jack. Jack was his centre, his safety net, something good to focus on. It was getting easier to stay there, to let his ugly situation fade away, to let himself just fade away.

A sharp slap across his face snapped him out of it again. “Oh no, you don’t get to drift away again,” Richfield sneered as he stepped closer. Brock winced as a hand gripped his hair tight and yanked his head back.

“My employers are getting impatient. They say it’s taking too long. So why don't you do yourself a favour and just tell me what I need to know,” Richfield whispered in his ear. “It’ll save you a lot of pain.”

“Go to hell,” Brock ground out between his clenched teeth. Richfield sighed and let go of Brock’s hair. “Fine, have it your way.” He nodded and one of the other men picked up a pair of pliers just as the door imploded inwards.

 

 

  
Jack burst through the door on the heels of Captain America, STRIKE folding in behind him. Three men turned in shock, hands scrambling for weapons. Jack didn’t even hesitate, putting a bullet through the throat of the man closest to him.

Rogers shield flew through the air, slamming into the man farthest away while Hunter dropped the third.

Jack was in full soldier mode, but nevertheless he almost faltered when he saw Brock hanging in the middle of the room. The man’s head was pitched forward on his chest, toes trailing in a bucket of water. He clocked the car battery set to the side and swallowed thickly as he crossed the room in four strides.

He wrapped his arms around Brock’s hips, lifting him up to take the weight off of his shoulders. He kicked the bucket aside, water sloshing over the floor. “Cut him down!” He barked.

He heard a metallic crack as Rogers literally snapped the chain in half and Jack grunted as all of Brock’s weight fell into his arms. Rogers was suddenly beside him, helping him ease Brock to the ground. Jack felt a stab of fear at how limp Brock was, his eyes fluttering and unfocused. His eyes scanned over Brock’s body, noting the bruises and the burns. Nothing looked life threatening, but Jack feared further internal damage from the obvious beatings Brock had endured.

“His shoulder’s dislocated,” Rogers said grimly.

Jack said nothing, only watching with sharp eyes as Rogers knelt on Brock’s other side, gently taking his shoulder and manipulating it back into the joint. It slipped back into place with a loud crack. Brock’s eyes snapped open and Jack grimaced at the choked cry that spilled from the man's lips. It must have hurt like a bitch, considering how swollen and bruised it was.

“Hey, hey,” Jack murmured as Brock struggled against him. “Easy, easy!” Jack grabbed onto Brock, holding him steady before he hurt himself. Brock’s eyes flickered before they finally focused on Jack’s face.

“Jackie?” Brock slurred, voice hoarse, confusion evident on his face. Jack could see his eyes looked glazed and red. God knows what kind of drugs were currently circulating through his system.

“Easy, you’re good. I gotcha,” Jack said soothingly. Brock furrowed his brow, looking confused. “Jackie?” He said again, reaching a hand up towards Jack’s face. Jack snatched the hand down, discretely running his thumb across Brock’s knuckles. All he wanted to do was pull Brock into his arms and never let go, but it wasn’t something he could do, not with Rogers sharp eyes on them.

“Let’s get you outta here, yeah?” Jack said instead, looking around for something to cover him up with.

A ratty looking blanket was shoved in front of his face and Jack took it, nodding his thanks to Hunter who stood beside him, his face stoney. He covered Brock gently in the blanket before hoisting him into his arms.

Brock groaned and he fell unconscious as Jack stood, his head lolling limping against Jack’s chest. Probably for the best. He turned to the door when Gallagher’s voice snapped through the room.

“Fuck, it’s Richfield.” He said as he rolled over the man that Jack had brought down. Sure enough, STRIKE Bravo’s team lead lay in a pool of his own blood, eyes glassy and staring.

Jack said nothing, stepping over the body on his way out the door with Hunter and Murphy on his heels.

 

 

 

  
Brock tried to open his eyes but they wouldn’t cooperate. They felt glued together, all gritty and sticky. Everything hurt. The voices that reached his ears hurt. He struggled to make words out of the random sounds but it was like trying to hear underwater. Everything was muffled and confusing.

“But why him……isn’t…..special……deserve?”

“Above……don’t…..orders…..,” a second voice joined the first. Brock decided to name the first one _Grumpy_ and the second _Exasperated_. Or maybe _Irate_. Brock felt a weird urge to giggle.

“Hurry…..” _Grumpy_ was talking again. Brock felt something seep through the IV port in the back of his hand and start to flow up his arm. It felt so cold. Brock was tired of being cold.

The icy feeling spread across his chest, coiling around his lungs and then _squeezing_. Brock felt his body spasm and arch off the bed as the ice turned to fire.

If Brock thought he was in pain before, it was nothing compared to this excruciating agony that was now clawing it’s way through him. It felt like he was being burned from the inside out. He screamed, or tried to. His throat felt paralyzed. He couldn't move. A red haze raced across the back of his eyelids and then darkness.

 

 

  
Brock opened his eyes, blinking against the brightness of everything. Everything hurt. He blinked again, confused. He thought he remembered hearing voices and feeling very cold. He tried to remember more but the memories were fading fast. Everything was so hazy anyways and he gave up on trying.

He glanced to his side and saw Hunter and Jennings sitting side by side in uncomfortable looking plastic chairs. They both had their eyes closed, Jennings head resting on Hunter’s shoulder.

He swallowed, wincing. His throat felt sore and raw. For all that Brock hadn’t given up any intel to Richfield, he hadn’t been able to stop himself from screaming. He turned his head to the other side. There was Jack, leaning against the wall, snoring softly.

Brock struggled, trying to sit up. The wires and leads got tangled with the nasal cannula feeding him oxygen. He must have unhooked something because all of a sudden a shrill flat tone sounded through the room.

Jack startled awake and leapt to his feet, panic rolling wildly across his face. His eyes flicked from Brock to the monitors, and then back to Brock before the tension slowly bled out of him.

“Jesus fuck,” Hunter gasped from behind him. Brock glanced over to see Hunter slumping back into his chair as Jennings rubbed a hand across her face.

“You trying to give us a heart attack, boss?” Hunter drawled, looking a little shaken. He wrapped an arm around Jennings shoulders, giving her a reassuring hug.

“Oops?” Brock said in a hoarse voice as a couple hospital staff rushed into the room.

Jack hung back, his eyes never leaving Brock as the doctor asked some questions and ran a few tests. After a few minutes they filled out of the room, telling Brock that he would make a full recovery and he could go home in the morning. Hunter and Jennings stepped out as well, promising to return in a bit with coffee.

That just left Jack.

The tall man perched on the side of the bed, eyes never leaving Brock’s. Jack’s eyes were over bright and as vulnerable as Brock had ever seen them, the muscles in his jaw jumping.

Brock swallowed, suddenly scared. What if this was just another fantasy his mind had conjured up to protect itself? It all felt too good to be true. How could he know this was real? He reached out, feeling a little desperate. Jack met him half way, tangling his fingers gently through Brock’s. Brock squeezed the larger man’s hand. He had to know this was real. A small whimper escaped his lips before he could stop himself.

“Hey, easy,” Jack whispered, scooting closer and gently brushing his fingers across Brock's cheekbone. “Easy, you’re good. I gotcha.” Brock nodded, blinking away the moisture gathering in the corners of his eyes.

Jack gave him a small smile, rubbing his thumb gently across Brock's knuckles. He kept murmuring gentle reassurances as Brock's eyelids drooped and he was pulled back into darkness.

 

 

 

Brock awoke to cold concrete and a boot to the stomach. He gasped, curling in on himself. A hand grabbed his hair and yanked his head up roughly. Brock's vision swam as Richfield's face came into view.

Brock had known it had all been too good to be true. He had never been rescued. Jack had never come.

He shuddered as Richfield smiled. Brock's head snapped to the side as Richfield smashed his fist across it. Brock's forehead bounced off the concrete floor and he saw stars. Something jabbed him in the side and his whole body convulsed as the cattle-prod fried his nerve endings. He gritted his teeth but couldn't stop the scream that tore from his throat.....

 

 

Brock snapped awake to hands on his wrists, pinning his arms across his chest. A heavy weight pressed across his hips. He felt panic clawing at his chest and he thrashed. He bucked his hips up and to the side. The weight suddenly vanished and he sat up, chest heaving. He was in bed. At home. The rescue hadn't been a dream. His eyes snapped around the room, identifying everything was where it should be.

Bed. Dresser. Door. Jack. Chair. Windows. Jack. 

His eyes snapped back to the tall man sprawled on the floor. Brock gasped, trying to get his breathing under control, as the other man slowly got to his feet. "You back?" Jack asked, hands open non-threateningly to the sides. 

 _"You back?"_ Richfield's ugly voice echoed the words back at Brock and he shook his head, trying to dispel the last clinging traces of the nightmare. He flinched violently as Jack took a step towards him. 

"Easy, easy," Jack murmured, stopping in his tracks. Brock's eyes flickered over the younger man and he clenched his hands to try and stop them shaking.

"I was dreaming." Brock said, almost phrasing it as a question. Jack nodded anyways. "Tried to wake you up," Jack said, taking a cautious step forward. "You were flailing all over the place."

"Fuck," Brock bite out. He squeezed his eyes shut, fingers pinching at the bridge of his nose. A moment passed and he felt the bed dip. He reluctantly opened his eyes and felt his blood run cold at the sight of the bloody lip Jack was sporting.

"Did I do that?" Brock whispered, reaching a hand towards Jack's mouth. His eyes flicked up to Jack's. The other man didn't say anything, a hand coming up to swiftly wipe away the blood. 

"Fuck," Brock moaned. All of this because of a fucking bad dream. "Fuck, I'm sorry-," 

"Shut up," Jack interrupted gruffly. "It's not your fault."

Brock felt his throat close and he swallowed painfully, scrubbing a hand over his face. He felt Jack move but still couldn't help but flinch at the gentle touch on his arm. He opened his eyes to see Jack's face, his eyes gentle. He opened his arms and just waited. Brock only hesitated for a second before curling himself into the larger man's arms.

An arm wrapped gently around his shoulders, pulling him close against Jack's chest, while a hand cupped the back of his head. Brock clutched at the back of Jack's t-shirt, trying to stop the tremors that started to rack his body.  

"You're good. I gotcha. I gotcha," Jack said soothingly, pressing his lips to the top of Brock's head. Brock felt fingers card gently through his hair, fingernails scratching lightly. His eyes burned and he squeezed them shut.

Eventually, his shaking stopped and his breathing started to even. He sniffed, pulling away a little and wiping his nose on the back of his hand. "Barbarian," Jack murmured, swiping away the few tears that had managed to leak out and spill down Brock's cheek. 

"Come on," Jack said, shifting them over a bit. Brock let Jack guide him back down, curling up on his side as his healing ribs protested. Jack lay down in front of him, nose to nose. 

"Try and get some sleep," Jack said and Brock felt panic bubble up in his chest again. Sleep was where Richfield was. Sleep was waiting to pull him back to that small room and back into those memories that Brock would give anything to just forget. Jack picked up on it immediately and Brock swallowed thickly as Jack's large palm gently cupped his cheek. 

"I gotcha, I'm right here," the younger man whispered, his other hand intertwining around Brock's. "I got your back." Brock nodded, not trusting his voice but trusting Jack to be there when he woke up. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry! I can't help but give these boys a hard time. The next chapter is going to be heart-warming fluff, I promise!


	3. June

Brock couldn't keep the smile off his face as he slide the ring on Jack’s finger. Hunter was probably saying something. Jack seemed to be paying attention, which was good because Brock wasn’t.

All he had eyes for was Jack.

Jack smiled, laugh lines crinkling around the corners of his eyes, and he leaned in to press a gentle kiss against Brock’s lips. The room exploded into a cacophony of cheers and wolf whistles. Brock felt a blush creep up his neck as Jack pulled away, amusement dancing in his eyes. They turned to the small group of people gathered in Evans’ apartment.

Jennings had outdone herself, piling the majority of Evan’s furniture into the bedroom to create enough space in the studio style apartment. The exposed brick of the apartment and rich wood floors seemed to glow in the warm summer sun. Long tables ran along one wall with various finger style foods and buckets filled with ice, beer, and champagne. They had decided to keep it casual and intimate. Brock and Jack were both in jeans with nice button up shirts. Jack’s was a deep navy blue that really brought out the green in his eyes, which Brock definitely did not notice.

Everyone who they had invited was part of their inner circle. The rest of STRIKE Alpha was there. Hunter had obtained a marriage license online and had actually performed the marriage ceremony. He had taken a few creative liberties with the text, much to Brock’s embarrassment and Jack’s amusement. Jennings had been invited, or rather had invited herself in the form of planning and organizing everything. She stood with Murphy and Evans, all three grinning and clapping like fools.

Jenny was there as well, looking stunning in a flowery summer dress. Brock had seen her exchanging eyes with Evans earlier in the day and had seriously questioned if the man had a death wish.

Margaret, their neighbour from across the hall was also there, along with her dog, Rosie. She and Brock had struck up an unlikely friendship during the last few years over their mutual appreciation of classic rock. She had practically adopted the two men, dropping off a homemade meal or some baked goodies at least once a week. When she found out that they were getting married, she had nearly exploded with glee and promptly promised to bake them a wedding cake. Nothing Jack nor Brock could persuade her otherwise, and a beautiful three tiered German chocolate cake sat in the corner of Evans kitchen.

Trish was there, of course. She had become a close friend to Jack’s ever since the disastrous mission that had put her in a wheelchair and given Jack his facial scars. She sat to the left, smiling and clapping along with everyone.

Everything was perfect. Well, almost perfect but Brock refused to let himself dwell on that.

 

 

The day progressed in a blur of music, food, drinks, and good company. They opened presents, many of which were sharp or projectile-based. One parcel, presented by a smirking Hunter with a note that read _FOR THE HONEYMOON_ , made Brock choke on his beer. A hot blush crept up his neck as Jack chuckled softly beside him. Brock nailed him in the ribs with his elbow in revenge, sending death glares across the room at Hunter.

An unmarked envelope revealed two plane tickets to Barbados, with a return flight five days later. The card was blank, save for three letters: NJF. Brock glanced up at Jack, speechless and more than a little startled. If the other man was surprised, he didn’t show it. He shrugged. “Can’t really expect to hide anything from that man,” he muttered quietly.

The sun was just starting its slow trek towards the horizon when there was a soft knock at the door. “Brock, can you grab that?” Evans called from the kitchen were he and Margaret were organizing the next round of food. Brock padded across the room, throwing a look over his shoulder. He caught Jack’s eye where the younger man was lounging on the couch with Hunter. Jack’s face pulled into a slow smile and Brock couldn’t help but grin back. God, he was such a sap. He chuckled to himself as he pulled the door open.

“Hello,” Helen said quietly, twisting the strap of her purse in her hands.

“Hi,” Brock breathed. It felt as if someone had doused him in ice water. “May I have a word?” His foster mother asked nervously, stepping back a little into the hallway. Brock nodded, stepping out into the hall and closing the door.

“Seems like quite the party,” she said, forcing a smile. Her eyes flicked from his face to the ring on his finger and then back again. “Yeah,” Brock said, not knowing what else to really say. The last time they had spoken, it had gotten ugly, with Helen leaving Brock practically in tears from her harsh words, condemning him and his relationship with Jack.

“Look, I—“ Brock started but Helen interrupted him. “I have something I need to say and I want you to wait until I finish to say anything.” Brock swallowed thickly, and nodded again. This could go only one of two ways.

“I had a hard time dealing with…what happened the last time I visited,” she began haltingly. Brock swallowed, shifting his weight as Helen continued. “I struggled with it alone until I finally decided to speak with my pastor. He told me what I already knew; that homosexuality was an abomination, a moral sin of the flesh and condemnable in the eyes of God.”

Brock felt a cold chill spread through his body and he clenched his jaw. So that was the way this was going to go. He couldn’t believe she had come all the way out here just to spit in his face. Well, he wasn’t going let her spoil today, not this day. She had made him feel small and ugly before, he wasn’t going to let her do it again. He opened his mouth to interrupt, a torrid of scathing words ready on the tip of his tongue, but Helen beat him to it. “I haven’t finished,” she said sternly. Brock shut his mouth again, crossing his arms over his chest and waiting.

Helen swallowed nervously before continuing. “While he was talking, I got to thinking and I….I remembered the little boy I had taken in all those years ago; so scared and desperately trying not to show it. And I realized that if I let myself lose one of the best things that had ever come into my life…,” Helen finally looked up, meeting Brock’s eyes. “Well, I’d just never forgive myself.”

Brock’s breath caught in his throat. This right here was what Brock had been hoping would happen, while scarcely letting himself believe that it could. This was what had been missing. Helen pulled a rueful smile, though her eyes betrayed her tension.

“So I told my pastor to stuff it.”

A shocked breath of a laugh escaped Brock. Helen’s smile widened just a little, the tension in her body starting to ebb. “I called up that nice girl, Jenny was it?” She continued. “And she told me when and were. I booked a plane ticket and…well, here I am. I would have called but....I wanted to say all this in person.”

She took a deep breath, looking back up at Brock. “I’m so sorry honey,” she said softly. “I know I hurt you. I wish I hadn't and...if you want me to leave, I understand.”

“No, stay,” Brock choked out. “I want you to stay.” Helen nodded, her eyes bright. Brock reached forward and pulled his foster mother into his arms. She hugged him back, stroking a hand down his back.

He pulled away reluctantly, swiping a hand across his eyes. He chuckled as he saw she was doing the same. He turned as the door clicked open behind him. Jack stood in the doorway, eyes wary. “You good?” He asked softly, gaze flicking between Brock and Helen. Brock smiled. “Yeah, all good.” He reached out a hand. Jack took it, letting Brock pull him out into the hallway.

“Nona, this is Jack. My husband.” Brock felt a little thrill at being able to say those words and he felt Jack squeeze his hand before letting it go. Jack held his hand out to Helen with a polite nod. “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

“None of this 'ma’am' nonsense,” Helen said with a smile. “You’re family now. Call me Nona.” She reached up, pulling the large man into a hug. For the second time that day, Brock couldn’t keep the smile off his face.

Now everything was perfect.

 

 


	4. August

Brock glanced up from the stack of reports on his deck at the knock on his office door. “Come,” he said, shuffling through the papers to try and find that report Anderson sent in this morning.

“Commander Rumlow,” a middle aged man, dressed commandingly in a tailored blue suite, said as he stepped into his office. Rumlow stood, immediately snapping to attention. “Secretary Pierce.” Brock had met the man briefly in the past, but nothing more than a few passing words in greetings. “What can I do for you, sir?”

Pierce flapped a hand at him, taking a seat across from Brock. “Have a seat, Commander.” Brock sat, feeling a little wary. Pierce undid his suit jacket, the picture of ease. “Tell me, Commander, what is the clearance level of STRIKE’s Commander?” He asked mildly. “Level six, sir,” Brock replied, wondering where this was going. He knew full well that the man was aware of that fact.

“Then how is it that you are aware of Project Insight, which is information privy only to clearance level eight and above.” Pierce cocked his head slightly to the side, eyes calculating. Brock felt a cold sweat break out down his back. Then it all clicked into place.

“I think you know how, sir,” Brock replied, keeping his tone of voice neutral. Pierce chuckled, gaze leaving Brock’s face for the first time since he had sat down. “Yes, I suppose I do.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Just as Brock was about to ask what this was all about, Pierce turned back to him. “What are your thoughts on it?” Pierce may be keeping a light, casual tone of voice but his eyes were sharp and calculating. “I think,” Brock said cautiously. “That in order to build a new world, you sometimes have to tear the old one down.”

Pierce was silent for a beat before breaking out into a quiet chuckle. “That’s a good line,” he commented, getting to his feet and buttoning his jacket again. “Mind if I use it?”

“All yours, sir,” Brock said, standing as well. “I have a job coming up that I wouldn’t mind your expertise on. I’m afraid it will probably be a little short notice.”

“I’m used to that, sir.” Brock said, allowing himself a little rueful smile. Pierce chuckled again. “Yes, I suppose you would have to be.” He walked around the desk and held out his hand to Brock. “Commander, a pleasure.”

“Pleasure’s all mine, sir,” Brock replied, taking the offered hand in his. Pierce yanked him forward, far stronger than he looked, and whispered in his ear.

“Hail HYDRA.”

Then, just as quickly as he came, he was gone, leaving Brock feeling like he had just passed some sort of test.

 

 


	5. December, Part 1

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Brock groaned, rolling over and grabbing at his phone. He answered it with a groggy “Rumlow.”

“I apologies for waking you, Commander, but this is very time sensitive.”

Brock sat bolt up in bed, suddenly wide awake. “Not at all, Secretary,” he said, prompting Jack to roll over, a questioning hand landing on Brock’s lower back. Brock listened intently before hanging up and turning to Jack.

“Our ride will be here in ten. Briefing on the way. Get dressed,” Brock said as he hopped out of bed and grabbed the discarded jeans he had tossed on the floor the night before.

“Why’d Pierce call personally, not dispatch?” Jack questioned, but got out of bed all the same.

“This isn’t for SHIELD,” Brock replied, yanking his arms through his shirt. Jack paused, jeans hanging lose off his hips, and stared across the dark room at Brock.

“Ah,” Jack said quietly before rucking his pants further up his hips and buttoning them.

He said nothing else. He didn’t have to. Brock knew they both felt the same way. It had been so long since they had joined HYDRA that they had practically forgotten why they joined in the first place.

Eleven years as sleeper agents with no word, no missions, no nothing. It was easy to just fall into the routine of everyday while forgetting that you are part of a bigger picture.

 

 

  
Eight minutes later and they were standing on the corner of their block, go bags over their shoulders, as a black SUV pulled up. Jack and Brock exchanged a look before getting in.

As soon as the doors closed, the driver took off. Half an hour later and they were pulling up to a private airstrip. A jet sat on the runway, engines primed. As Brock and Jack stepped out, another SUV pulled up and Secretary Pierce stepped out. He approached at a quick pace, all business.

“Commander,” he said briskly. “Dossiers and mission briefings are in the plane. You’ll be backup and extraction for our asset already in place.” Pierce paused, eyes briefly flicking up to Jack.

Brock understood, and passed his go bag to Jack who grabbed it without a word and strode towards the jet. Brock waited, hands loosely clasped behind his back.

“The Asset is…special. Enhanced, you could say,” Pierce started cautiously. Brock frowned in confusion. “Tell me, Commander, have you ever heard of the Winter Soldier?”

Brock’s eyebrows shot up. Of course he had. The Winter Soldier was a ghost story, a legend whispered about by a few and dismissed as a myth by most. Natasha Romanoff, after a bad mission Brock and his team had extracted her from, had muttered about the soldier, trailing off into Russian as the morphine Hunter pumped into her took effect.

“I take it you have,” Pierce said with a smirk. “Well, let me assure you that he is very real. We acquired him from the Russians and now he works for us and our cause. Now, your extraction time is 13:30, with touchdown back here at 23:00. It is vital that you stick to that schedule.”

“Sir?” Brock said, feeling a little in the dark. Pierce shifted his weight. “The Asset’s programming can be finicky. He requires regular maintenance to be able to perform at peak condition or else he starts to malfunction. He's already been in the field longer than is ideal.”

“Sir?” Brock questioned again. Some of the words that Pierce had used made the hair on the back of his neck raise; words like ‘ _programming_ ’, ‘ _maintenance_ ’, and ‘ _malfunction_ ’. This was a human being they were talking about, wasn’t it?

“Nothing that you need to worry about, Commander. Just bring him back on time and there won’t be any issues.” Pierce gave him a reassuring smile that Brock didn’t find comforting in the least.

“Yessir,” he replied. Pierce handed him a file folder. “This is for your eyes only,” he said sternly. “It is instructions on how to deal with the Asset, along with trigger phrases if he starts getting out of hand. How is your Russian?”

“Passible sir,” Rumlow said, feeling even more uneasy. “Well, it will have to do. Maintain minimal verbal contact outside of necessary orders. Good luck, Commander.” Pierce gave him a nod and strode back to his car. Brock rubbed a hand over his face before trotting to and up the ramp into the waiting jet. This was already too weird.

Inside he saw Jack had already changed into his tac gear. Jennings, Hunter, and Murphy were all there, in various stages of prepping themselves for the mission. McKinnon, a new addition, sat up front checking her rifle. Brock glanced around, searching for Evans before it hit him.

Evans wasn’t HYDRA.

He was SHIELD through and through. Of course he wouldn’t be here. That realization left a bad taste in Brock’s mouth and he busied himself with stripping off his civilian clothes and getting into his gear.

 

 

 

  
A few hours later and the jet was touching down in a large clearing a few kilometres outside of their rendezvous point with the Asset. The flight had been particularity quiet as STRIKE digested the information in their mission briefings. This was almost as fantastical as when Captain America had resurfaced.

Thankfully, there was only a light covering of snow on the ground. It still took them almost an hour to hike to the extraction point; a fancy mansion sat halfway down the side of a fucking mountain, overlooking the valley below. 

Brock shook his head at the extravagance of it and split STRIKE up. He and Jack would cover the south side and make first contact with the asset while Hunter and Jennings covered the south west corner. Murphy and McKinnon would provide cover from the east ridge.

Once everyone was in position, all that was left to do was wait. 

 

 

 

"We should get a dog."

“Excuse me?" 

Brock looked back from his lookout post to see Jack staring at him with a raised eyebrow. "I'm serious," Brock protested. "We should get a dog. Like a rescue, yah know?"

"It would starve," Jack said dryly, returning to the knife he had been sharpening. "I'd remember to feed it," Brock said defensively. He most definitely did not lean away as Jack pointed that massive hunting knife in his direction. 

“One, no you would not and I’d end up taking care of it. Two, we’re barely ever home. And three--,"

"Alright, alright, alright," Brock interrupted. "Spoilsport," he muttered under his breathe, turning his attention back to the mansion. He squinted, frowning, and put his eye to his rifle scope. A small dark shape walked boldly through the side door of the mansion and disappeared into the trees. Brock could see the warm flicker of flames through the downstairs windows. 

"Alright, heads up," he said over the comms. Behind him he heard Jack slide his knife back into the sheath on his hip and shoulder his rifle. "Here we go."

Just as Brock was settling in for another long wait, seriously it was gonna take forever for the guy to hike out of the valley, the hair on Brock's beck prickled and he felt air displace behind him. 

He spun on his knees, not for the first time thanking his hair trigger reflexes, and there he was. 

He stood about twenty feet back, dressed completely in black with a black half mask covered the lower half of his face. Twin leg holsters matched the sling holster that strapped a Paratus-16 collapsible sniper rifle to his back. 

He was an imposing silhouette, with broad shoulders and a head of tangled dark hair, but what drew Brock's attention was his left arm. It was metal, shining bright and polished with a blood red star painted on the upper arm. 

He reminded Brock of a feral animal, muscles coiled and ready to attack. There was no doubt that this man was dangerous. Not in the way men like Brock or Jack were dangerous, no. Jack could snap a man’s neck with ease and not think twice about it afterwards, but he was all brute strength and imposing presence. This man was all stealth, sleek and graceful. The shadow you didn’t see coming until it was too late. A ghost, there one moment and gone the next; gone as swiftly and easily as gun smoke.

Brock got to his feet and the Asset tensed. ”Easy," Brock said. The man shifted his weight ever so slightly, a hand hovering towards the holstered SIG at his thigh. Brock swallowed, his threat dry.  

“ _отступить, солдат_ ,” Brock said as he had been briefed to do, stumbling a little over the thick Russian words before switching back to English. "Mission report."

Immediately, the Asset relaxed. "Target eliminated," he responded in a flat tone, voice low and rough like he didn’t use it often.  "All remaining evidence destroyed." 

As if on cue a massive explosion rocked the valley behind them. Brock glanced over his shoulder to see the burning ruin of the mansion. The fire must have reached the gas main. 

Brock turned back, casting a quick look at Jack. The man was a stoic as ever, only a small quirk of his eyebrow betraying anything. 

"Well then," Brock said, shouldering his pack. "STRIKE, fall back to the jet. Let's move, Soldier."

Brock took the lead, allowing the Asset to fall in behind him with Jack bringing up the rear. Having the man behind him had all of Brock's instincts screaming at him, but having Jack watching his back made it tolerable. 

 

 

 

  
An hour of trudging through wilderness later, they headed up the embankment that would lead them to the clearing where they had landed. 

"STRIKE, status?" Brock inquired. "Dinners on the table and getting cold," Hunter drawled in his ear. "Jennings looped back around to help McKinnon pull Murphy out of a ditch.”

"It was a twelve foot drop off, not a ditch!" Murphy snapped over comms. "We're on our way back, six minutes out," said McKinnon, interrupting whatever else Murphy was going to say. 

"Jesus," Brock sighed as the three of them crested the top of the hill. Ahead sat the jet, gleaming bright in the morning sun. He gave Jack a nod, who trotted on ahead towards the jet. 

"We're in sight," Brock called out over the comms. “Hunter, start pre flight. I wanna be in the air in ten." 

"Nag, nag, nag," Hunter said. "Yeah know boss, one of these days--,"

Hunter never got to finish his sentence. Something hissed through the air above Brock’s head. A massive roar split the air as the jet cracked in half, consumed by a huge fireball. 

The shock wave from the explosion rushed at Brock. It lifted him into the air and slammed him into the ground. Pain flared down his body and then everything went dark.

 

 

 

 

  
Brock came awake to the smell of jet fuel and burning metal. His vision swam as he rolled over with a groan. He coughed, clutching his ribs as he staggered to his feet. The jet lay in smouldering ruins, smoke spiralling into the sky.

“Rollins,” he said, frantically scanning the area. “Jack!” He cried as his eyes landed on a prone figure a few feet away.

Brock scrambled over, collapsing uncoordinatedly beside Jack. The other agent’s voices clamoured over the comms, but Brock could only focus on one thing: Jack wasn’t moving. “Come on, darlin’, don’t do this to me,” he muttered as he scrabbled to find a pulse. He let out a gasp in relief as he felt it thrum steadily under his fingers. “STRIKE, report! Jennings, status!”

“We’re a klick out. What the fuck happened?” Jennings yelled. “RPG. We lost the jet,” Brock said, eyes scanning the tree line, rifle tucked against his shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Asset doing the same.

“And we lost Hunter.”

Brock forced himself to ignore Jennings’ pained gasp as the Asset closed in next him. “You good?” Brock said sharply. “You injured?” The other man shook his head. Brock exhaled a breath. At least that was something, he supposed, but it was only a matter of time before whoever destroyed the jet would come to check for survivors. They needed to move.

“Fall back. McKinnon, you have the SATCOM. Get out of the shadow of this fucking mountain and call it in, then wait for extraction.”

“What about you?” McKinnon asked. “We’ll be right behind you,” Brock replied just as gunfire erupted in the distance and over the comms.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Murphy snapped. “We’re taking fire, boss. They’re between us and you!”

“Fall back!” Brock ordered. “Get outta here. We’ll skirt the valley and loop back around to you. Keep off comms as much as possible,” Brock said, turning to the Asset. “Okay, we gotta—shit!”

Brock tried to stand, but fell back to the ground as his knee gave out under him. He must have twisted it when he landed. He jumped as hands, one black gloved and one silver metal, clamped on either side of his knee.

The Asset felt along the joint, causing Brock to blanch white from the pain. “Nothing’s broken.” The man said shortly, the mask slightly muffling his voice. Brock watched as the man reached into the pack on Brock’s back and pulled out a splint and tenser bandage.

With calculated efficiency he strapped Brock’s knee tight before grabbing the man by the elbows and hauling him to his feet, as easily as if Brock were a child. “Jesus,” Brock muttered as he got his feet underneath him. He tested the weight on his leg gingerly. It hurt like a bitch but the split kept it from giving out.

“Alright, you grab him,” Brock ordered with a nod to Jack, still unconscious on the scorched ground. There was no way in hell he would be able to carry the man, not with a busted knee. The Asset’s brow furrowed. “He is a liability. We will move faster unburdened.”

“Unburd—we are not leaving him,” Brock said in disbelief. “He will only slow us down,” the Soldier argued. “Pick him up. That’s an order, Soldier,” Brock snapped.

The man hesitated and Brock bristled. They did not have time for this but Brock was damned if he was going to leave Jack behind. His hand tightened on his rifle. The Asset’s eyes flicked to his grip and then back to his face. A tense moment passed and then he bent over Jack. He hauled the large man over his shoulders like he weighed nothing, one arm looped under Jack’s leg to hold his opposite wrist. Brock prayed that Jack had no spinal injuries.

“Alright, lets move,” Brock said, glancing over his shoulder as he heard gunfire in the distance.

 

 

 

They kept up a quick pace, as quick as Brock could manage with his knee. They eventually reached a long ravine, stretching about thirty feet across and triple that down. It stretched as far as Brock could see in either direction. “Great,” Brock muttered. “Well, this wasn’t on the fucking map!”

He looked back to the Asset, standing patiently behind him with Jack slung over his shoulder’s like a sack of potatoes. He hadn’t even stirred in the past few hours of hiking, something that was beginning to worry Brock.

Suddenly, the hairs on the back of Brock’s neck prickled. Crackling of underbrush. Muffled voices in the distance. Shit.

Brock locked eyes with the Asset. They couldn’t risk making a stand here. A few brisk hand signals later and Brock found himself face down in the dirty snow under the cover of a massive fallen tree. The voices got louder and suddenly a boot landed inches from Brock’s face. He held his breath.

After what felt like an eternity, the boots stepped away. Brock could hear them all crunch through the brush, estimating at least six men. When he couldn't hear them anymore, Brock counted to one hundred, and then again just to be sure before slowly peaking out from their hiding spot.

“Shit,” Brock muttered. He couldn’t feel the side of his face, numb from being half buried in the snow. He glanced over at the Asset. The man sat on his haunches, his icy blue eyes locked on Brock. Jack lay sprawled between them, still unconscious.

“There’s an abandoned hunting cabin back along this ravine.” Brock almost jumped at the soft sound of the Asset’s voice. “It’s well hidden, not easy to find even if you’re looking.”

Brock weighed their options. It was the best one at the moment. It would at least provide them cover and a safe place to rest. Well, as safe as they could get in there current situation.

“Lead the way.”

 

 

 

A few hours later and the Asset was kicking in the front door to a run down cabin. Cabin was really too generous of a word. What Jack and Brock had in the mountains of Colorado was a cabin. This was more like a shack. It had one room, with a small metal stove and a rough hewn table and stump-like chairs. Brock watched warily as the Asset lay Jack down on what probably served as a bed but looked more like a pile of rags and old, ratty furs.

“Jennings, you there?” Brock asked into his comms. “Here boss,” was her immediate answer, static crackling heavily in his ear. “Status?”

“Hunkered down in a cave we came across about eighteen klicks from the valley. We had some goons on our tail but managed to shake ‘em. It’s starting to snow pretty hard. Looks like the storm’s rolling in your direction, boss. You better find shelter.”

“Copy. We found an old hunting cabin about twelve klicks south from the clearing. We’ll stay put and wait for your word. Continue radio silence until you’ve made contact with HQ.” He hesitated before added a quiet “Stay safe.”

“Copy that, boss. Jennings out.” Brock checked his watch. Shit, they would almost have been back to HQ by now. Well, at least everyone back in DC will know something went wrong when they don’t show up.

Brock limped over, kneeling gingerly down next to Jack. The Asset knelt on the other side, those ghost eyes of his never leaving Brock. It was unnerving to say the least. Brock shrugged off the pack, keeping his rifle close. He pulled out the first aid kit from his pack and then turned his attention to Jack.

He did a quick hands-on assessment, finding no abnormalities in the man’s spine or neck. He did have a nasty gash on the side of his head, the blood now dried and tacky. Brock leaned over and stilled. The whole right arm of Jack’s thick STRIKE jacket was a burned wreck. The side of his thigh was also badly singed. “Shit,” Brock muttered and reached to unzip Jack’s tac vest.

“Gimme a hand,” he ordered.

With the Asset’s help, Brock got Jack out of his tac gear and carefully cut away his jacket. Brock cursed as he carefully peeled the thick fabric away, revealing a mangle of burned skin extending from Jack’s wrist all the way up to his bicep.

Jack moaned deep in the back of his throat, his eyes fluttering open. “Hey, hey, easy. Don’t move,” Brock said, placing a hand on Jack’s shoulder to keep him still. Jack groaned again and moved to sit up.

“Hold him still!” Brock snapped, already beyond annoyed. Seriously, the guy was just sitting there, staring. The Asset reaching a hand to Jack’s other shoulder. The man’s other hand gently wrapped around Jack’s wrist, just below the burns, to keep in injured arm from moving too much. Jack flinched at the touch.

“Easy,” Brock murmured as he rooted around in the first aid kit. “This’ll make you feel better.” He pulled the cap off the morphine auto-injector and stabbed it into Jack’s upper arm. Jack’s eyelids slid closed and his whole body relaxed. “There yah go, big guy,” Brock soothed, squeezing Jack’s shoulder lightly. “Easy does it.”

With Jack unconscious again, Brock turned his attention back to Jack’s arm. It looked nasty, with red patches are blisters already starting to appear, but it was mostly second degree. A few patches, down near his wrist, had gotten a little charred, but Jack had been lucky he had been in that heavy duty jacket and pants. Brock soaked gauze in water from their rations and gently place them over the burns, letting them soak.

While he waited, he cleaned and closed the gash to the side of Jack’s head. The whole time the Asset just sat there, staring. He didn’t move, hardly even blinked. Finally, Brock had had enough.

“You wanna find something useful to do?” He snapped, wiping the last of the blood from Jack’s face. “And take that damn mask off while you’re at it. Creepier shit I’ve never seen.”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Asset hesitantly reach a hand up. Flesh fingers touched the mask and his eyes flicked to Brock, uncertain. Brock sighed, exasperated. “Whatever, man.”

The Asset hesitated a moment longer before his fingers gripped the half mask and pulled it away from his face. Brock’s breath caught in his throat.

Fuck, he was just a kid!

The Asset shifted slightly, radiating unease. Brock swallowed nervously. “You sure you’re not injured?” He asked gently, trying to put the kid at ease. The Asset shook his head.

“Ok well, why don’t you check if anything of use got left behind?” The other man looked relieved for something to do. Brock turned his attention back to Jack as the Asset started rooting through the cupboards and bins at the back of the shack.

He removed the soaked gauze after a few more minutes, and used tweezers to remove any remaining cloth or debris. He put antiseptic cream on the worst of the blisters and loosely covered the burns with non-stick pads and gauze. Not ideal, but better than any other alternative.

Brock shuffled himself so he was leaning against the stove, Jack’s head by his hip, and undid the split from his knee. His knee was badly swollen and very tender.

A hand shoved something wrapped in an old dish towel under his nose. Brock looked up into the Asset’s face. It was as blank and expressionless as always. Brock fumbled for the bundle and found it cold. A snow pack.

“Thanks,” Brock said gruffly, gently laying it around his swollen knee. The kid pushed a dusty pillow under his leg, providing support for the joint. “Find anything useful?”

“Shovels and fishing gear,” was the rough reply. “Well, I hope to not be here long enough to need those,” Brock chuckled. “No radio?” The Asset shook his head.

“Well, might as well make the best of it,” Brock sighed, digging back into his pack. “Here,” he tossed over a MRE as the Asset sat down, leaning against the outer wall of the shack. The other man caught it, startled. He looked at it before turning to Brock, confused.

“What, you’ve never had MRE’s before?” Brock said incredulously. The Asset shook his head. “Huh,” Brock marvelled. “Well, they’re not that bad.” Brock ripped open his own MRE and pulling out a scoop with his fingers. Butter chicken, could be worse.

“What’s your name, kid?” He asked, licking his fingers. He was purposefully ignoring Pierce’s instructions of minimal verbal contact with the Asset outside of issuing orders. They were gonna be trapped in this one-room shack for who knew how long. It wasn’t like he was just gonna ignore the guy. The Asset said nothing, just stared down at his feet with his unopened MRE clutched stiffly in his hands.

“Don’t tell me it’s classified,” Brock said with a chuckle. The kid shook his head, a jerky movement that bordered on uncoordinated. “You do have a name, right?” Brock teased, but the Asset just shrugged again.

The muscles in the kid’s jaw jumped, his hands clenching and unclenching. The light caught on his strange, metallic left arm. He shook his head, blinking rapidly. Brock’s mind flashed back to Pierce’s parting words, of ‘ _programming_ ’ and ‘ _enhanced_ ’. It sent a shiver through Brock’s skin.

“Okay,” he said slowly, trying to defuse the situation. “Well, what should I call you? Can’t just keep calling you Soldier, now can I?” Brock finished it with a crooked smirk but the man kept his eyes firmly rooted on the floor.

“Okay,” Brock said again. “Well, ummm….,” he wracked his brain. He couldn’t just come up with a name for the guy, that wasn’t right. Unless……

“Hey, what about Winter? You know, after your title. The Winter Soldier. I went to high school with a girl named Summer, it’s not so unusual to be named after a season,” Brock caught himself rambling and took a deep breath.

“Can I…call you Winter?”

The kid looked up at him, startled. Brock swallowed thickly. What kinda fucked up life did this kid have, to not even have a name?

After a moment, the kid nodded slowly. Brock let out a breath. “Ok, Winter it is,” Brock took another bite of chicken. “ ‘Cause that’s not weird at all.” he finished in a low mutter to himself.

 

 

 

  
A few hours later, it started to snow. Winter (Brock had a good chuckle to himself over the irony of the name) brought in firewood at Brock’s instructions and built up a blaze in the little metal stove. Brock moved to lean up against one of the stools, a ratty fur around his shoulders.

Winter stood at the window, his rifle tucked easily under his arm. He kept his gaze steadily out the window into the falling snow.

The wind was starting to pick up now, whistling through the cracks in the walls and Brock shivered. He snatched up a pill bottle from the first aid kit and popped a couple more pills, swallowing them dry. The pain in his knee had subsided to a dull ache and he wanted to keep it that way.

Brock sat in silence, watching the flames through the stove grate, until he felt his eyelids start to droop. “You good to take first watch?” He said with a yawn. Winter nodded, eyes never leaving the ever thickening snow drifts outside.

Brock just shook his head, shifting himself to lie down beside Jack. “Wake me in four hours,” he said, yawning again. He pulled the furs up around him, discretely sliding a hand around Jack’s uninjured wrist.

He found Jack’s pulse point, taking comfort in feeling it thrum steadily under his fingers. He was asleep almost before his eyes fully closed.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> отступить, солдат - Stand down, Soldier


	6. December, Part 2

Brock woke all at once, sitting up with a start. He glanced around wildly before remembering where he was. He took a breath, wiping sleep from his eyes.

He rolled over and placed a hand on Jack’s chest, feeling the gentle rise and fall of the other man’s chest. Reassured, Brock got to his feet, wincing as his knee protested. It had gone stiff while he had been asleep.

He snatched up the bottle of pills as he limped over to where Winter was still standing by the window. The kid looked like he hadn’t moved an inch.

Brock popped a couple of pills, coming to stand by the window. He looked out into a wash of white. It hadn’t stopped snowing, the drifts starting to pile high outside the shack. Brock could just see them by the light that was starting to peak through the trees. Wait, light?

“I said wake me up in four hours,” he accused. The kid’s pale eyes flicked to him briefly before fixing his blank gaze out the window again.

“I don’t need sleep,” he said shortly.

“I call bullshit,” Brock said dryly, noting the deep circles that were starting to bruise under the kid’s eyes. “Get some rest, kid,” Brock said, holding a hand out for the rifle still tucked under Winter’s arm. “I’ll keep watch.”

Winter’s hands tightened on the rifle, unease flickering through his eyes again. Brock fought the urge to roll his eyes. The kid was jumpier than anyone he’d ever met, which was saying something considering their line of work.

“I’ll make it an order if I have to, Soldier,” he said dryly. Winter immediately handed over the rifle. Brock took it, a little started at the sudden change. “Okay then,” he said slowly. He frowned when Winter didn’t move. That unsure look was back in the kid’s eyes, like he didn’t know what to do. Like he was waiting for Brock to explain.

“Go on,” Brock urged, feeling a bit like a babysitter. The kid hesitated again before pushing off the wall. He curled up on the bare floor beside the stove, leaning against the wall. Now Brock really did roll his eyes. “Jesus,” he muttered, bending down and snatching up a couple of the pelts. “Here.”

He tossed them over to the other man, who caught them with that deer-in-the-headlights look of his. He stared at them for a moment, eyes flicking subtly up to Brock before he wrapped them around his shoulders.

Brock sighed and dragged one of the stools over to the window. He perched on it, carefully extended his sore knee.

A few minutes later, he heard light snoring coming from the corner of the shack. He glanced over, seeing Winter curled up on his side. His back was pressed firmly against the wall, arms wrapped around himself with his knees tucked up against his chest.

Brock felt a flutter of unease in his chest. He recalled many a night sleeping exactly like that. Except he had been a child, scared of imaginary monsters under his bed or the real ones down the hall in his newest foster placement.

He was startled from his musings as Jack groaned. “Hey, hey,” Brock said, stumbling over as Jack struggled to sit up. “Easy,” he soothed, placing a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Don’t move.”

The younger man blinked owlishly. His eyes glanced around before landing on Brock, looking confused. A flutter of unease rippled through Brock’s stomach. “You know who I am, right?” Brock teased, mostly joking.

A panicky feeling started to claw it’s way up his throat as Jack’s brow furrowed and he squinted up at Brock. “Grandma?” Jack whispered.

“Asshole,” Brock muttered. Jack smirked and tried to sit up again. He hissed and fell back against the furs. “I said don’t move, dumbass,” Brock said, pulling over the first aid kit. “You probably broke a couple ribs.”

“What happened?” Jack asked, glancing down at his bandaged arm as Brock pulled out the pain meds. “RPG took out the jet,” Brock said grimly. “Jennings, McKinnon, and Murphy went to radio it in and get us an extraction after we got separated.”

Jack nodded, sitting up with a grimace. “I say don’t move, what does he do?” Brock grumbled, placing the pills in Jack’s large hand. The bottle hadn’t been full to begin with and they were starting to run low.

“What about Hunter?” Jack asked, swallowing the pills dry. Brock stiffened. “He was in the jet,” he said quietly. He could feel Jack’s eyes on him but he ignored him. He kept his hands busy with the first aid kit. “Fuck,” Jack said quietly. “Yeah,” Brock said.

Brock hadn’t let himself dwell on the fact that Hunter was dead. He couldn’t. When he got back stateside, he would mourn for the young man who had officiated his wedding. Right now he couldn’t afford himself the luxury.

He cleared his throat noisily. “You’re burns are mostly superficial,” he said, deflecting. “You were lucky.” Jack nodded, not commenting on Brock’s sudden change of subject. “What about the Asset?” He asked. Brock glanced behind Jack, to where Winter was curled up against the wall.

“He’s…I don’t know man, something’s not right there,” Brock said quietly as Jack looked over his shoulder to the sleeping man. “I just mean….,” Brock fumbled as Jack turned back to him with a frown. “The kid’s in some sort of fucked up situation. He doesn’t even have a name.”

“Doesn’t have a name,” Jack repeated back flatly.

“I mean it,” Brock insisted. “Not like he wouldn’t tell me, I mean he actually didn’t know. You should have seen his face when I asked. I’ve been calling him Winter. You know, like short for the Winter Soldier,” Brock explained as Jack looked confused.

“And then the stuff that Pierce said.” Brock trailed off, chewing on his lip while he thought. Upon seeing Jack raised eyebrows, Brock explained the troubling words Pierce had used on the tarmac back in DC. Jack said nothing, just cast another look back to the sleeping Asset.

“Okay, well, what’s the plan?” He said, turning back to Brock.

Brock sighed. “With that storm, our best chance is to dig in and wait for evac.”

“Fantastic,” Jack grumbled. His eyes flicked to the makeshift brace around Brock’s knee, and he reached out a gentle hand. “Just sprained,” Brock said shortly, slapping Jack’s hand away.

He immediately felt guilty and grabbed a couple of power bars out of his pack. “Here,” he said, shoving one into Jack’s hand. “Eat.”

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the crinkle of the bars wrapping. Brock was almost finished eating when Jack spoke up again.

“So you gave the most feared assassin in history a nickname, huh,” Jack said around a mouthful of power bar. Brock felt himself flush and took a bite of power bar to hide his embarrassment. “Shut up,” he muttered.

“I shoulda just said yes to the fucking dog.”

“I said shut up!”

 

 

A few hours later and Brock was back at the window. Jack dozed in front of the stove. It had really started snowing now, coming down so thick that Brock could barely see the trees.

He and Jack had done their best to weatherproof the shack, shoving rags and blanket scraps in the cracks around windows and under the doors, but drafts still snuck in.

Brock stretched, wincing as his neck cracked. A whimper reached his ears. He frowned, glancing over at Jack but the man was sleeping peacefully.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Winter twitch. The kid whimpered again, muttering something under his breath. Brock sighed and walked over, kneeling with a wince beside him.  
  
“Hey,” he said softly, knowing what it was like to be woken up in a combat situation and not wanting to startle the kid.

“No, Stevie, I’m not hungry. You finish it,” the kid mumbled, face crinkling into a pained looking frown. “Hey, Winter, wake up,” Brock said, reaching a hand towards his shoulder. Winter startled awake, blinking up at Brock. A scared and confused look glazed across his pale eyes.

“Easy kid,” Brock said soothingly.

One minute Brock was comforting a scared and confused kid, and the next he found himself lifted off the ground and slammed into the wall. A metal hand closed around his throat, choking off his air. Whatever vulnerability he had seen in Winter’s eyes a moment ago was long gone, replaced with that blank, hundred yard stare.

Brock scrabbled at the metal as Winter’s grip tightened. He lashed out with his booted foot, but Winter dodged it and slammed a fist into the side of his injured knee. White hot pain lanced up his leg and Brock choked as sparks flashed across his eyes.

Winter lashed out a hand behind him, viciously backhanded Jack who was coming up behind him, rifle raised. Jack came full off his feet, narrowly missing the stove as he crashed to the ground.

The movement relaxed Winter’s grip on Brock’s throat just an inch, but it was enough room to breath. “ _Cказочная страна_ ,” Brock gasped, repeating it three times like he had been briefed.

Immediately, Winter’s eyes rolled up in his head and he collapsed, taking Brock with him. Jack lunged forward with a curse, grabbing the kid before his head cracked against the metal stove.

They froze in place, Winter sprawled limply in Jack’s arms and Brock slumped down against the wall. Jack looked up to Brock, face grim but eyes betraying his fear and shock. Brock stared back, gasping for air.

“What the fuck was that?” Jack breathed. Brock just shook his head, rubbing a hand gently at his bruised throat. He had no fucking clue.

 

 

A few hours later, Brock most definitely did not jump when Winter woke. The kid flailed, scrambling up to his feet with a gasp. “” Brock said and immediately Winter relaxed. He turned to look at Brock.

“ _Какова миссия_?” He asked flatly. Great, Brock though in exasperation. “English, kid.” Winter furrowed his brow, as if he hadn’t understood.

“He’s asking what the mission is,” said Jack calmly, his Russian much better than Brock’s. Brock shot a glance over to Jack. The other man sat by the window, rifle tucked loosely against his shoulder. He was the picture of calm. Only his eyes betrayed his tension.

“Umm…you completed the mission?” Brock said, turning back to Winter. “Now awaiting extraction.” The answer seemed satisfactory and Winter nodded.

Brock’s mind flashed back once again to Pierce’s parting words; “The asset’s programming can be finicky. He requires regular maintenance to be able to perform at peak condition or else he starts to malfunction.”

Brock checked his watch. They were hours overdue back in DC. Well, shit. “Jennings, status?” He snapped into the comms. “Just about to call you, boss. Setting up the SATCOM as we speak.”

“Thank fuck,” Jack complained. Brock sent him a reprimanding look before replying. “Copy that,” he said, relaying their rough coordinates for evac and signing off. Rescue couldn’t come soon enough.

 

 

Brock didn’t think it was even possible, but things went even more downhill from there.

Whatever programming Winter had undergone was clearly starting to fall apart and Brock had no idea what to do. Periodically, Winter would grimace and hold a hand to his temple like he had a headache. He was constantly switching back and forth between Russian and English.

Every once in a while when he would speak English, Winter would slip into a thick Brooklyn accent. It unnerved Brock to no end, making him wonder what kind of life the kid had before the Russians and HYDRA got their hands on him. He wondered if he had even been willing, if he had known what he was signing up for.

Winter was currently staring down at his metal arm with a mix of shock and fear. He flexed the hand in disbelief, before looking up to Brock. Winter’s wide eyes searched his like he held some sort of answer to something. Then that glazed look slide back into the kid’s eyes. “ _Какова миссия_?”

“Not again,” Jack muttered from across the room. “This is fucked,” he said as Brock scrubbed a hand across his face. “You think?” Brock grumbled, digging out a protein bar and handing it over to Winter. “Here, eat this.” He glared at Winter until the kid unwrapped the bar, chewing cautiously. Brock sighed. They were so fucked.

 

 

  
A couple of hours later and Winter was puking his guts out around the back of the cabin. They were so very fucked.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Jack grumbled as he helped the Asset back inside. Winter was pale and sweaty, fine tremors running through his body. “Leave off,” Brock said tiredly, closing the door and stuffing the rags back around it to keep out the wind.

Jack dumped the kid on the ground roughly. “Hey easy,” Brock snapped. Jack just ignored him, stalking back to the window to keep watch.

Brock snatched up a water bottle and knelt beside the kid. “Easy, easy,” he murmured as he helped Winter into a sitting position, leaning him back against one of the stools. The kid looked like he was going through withdrawals.

“Here,” Brock said softly, uncapping the water and holding it out. Winter took it, taking a cautious sip while Brock tossed one of the blankets around the kid’s shoulders. He stood, grimacing as his knee buckled under his weight and he stumbled. Jack was halfway to his feet as Brock steadied himself, waving him off. He limped over to the other stool and sat across from Jack.

“What was that about?”

Jack snorted, staring stubbornly out the window. Brock bite off another snarky comment, instead taking the time to really look at the man. Jack had a pinched look about his face. The lines around his mouth and eyes were deeper, his skin looking waxy and pale. Brock sighed. The man had to be in a lot of pain. Burns and broken ribs hurt like a bitch, and they were running low on pain meds.

He ran a hand through his hair, staring out into the snow. He slide a foot across the floor, bumping up against Jack’s ankle. Jack stood and Brock thought the younger man was going to pull away, but he just scooted his seat closer to Brock’s.

Jack sat back down, slipping his legs in-between Brock’s. He blanched as Jack’s knee bumped against his injured one. Jack reached down, murmuring a quiet apology, and gently cupped the side of the throbbing joint. Brock covered Jack’s hand with his, rubbing his thumb against the webbing between Jack’s thumb and forefinger.

He looked out the window into the snow and frowned, seeing a small dark speck moving out in the snow. He squinted and it got bigger. Then multiplied.

“Shit,” Brock muttered under his breath, dropping down low against the window. He detached the scope from his rifle and squinted through it out into the snow.

“How many?” Jack said as Brock watched the shapes get bigger. “Three, no four,” he said, frowning. “Wait—.”

Two of the men wrestled with another man whose hands were bound behind his back. Brock felt a cold chill wash over him and he cursed under his breath. At Jack’s raised eyebrows, he passed over the scope.

“That’s Hunter,” Jack breathed. “But I thought….”

“Yeah, so did I,” Brock said grimly as he watched the men force Hunter to his knees, presenting him like bait. The third man, probably the leader, shouted something at the cabin. The words were lost on the wind, but the meaning was clear as he pressed the barrel of his gun to the back of Hunter’s head.

“Shit,” he spat. Their rifles were not meant for long distance precision.“Okay, I’ll—.”

Whatever plan he was about to outline died on his lips as the man holding the gun jerked and fell back into red-splattered snow. The other two fell just as quickly. Brock glanced over as Winter raised his head from his sniper rifle, perched as he was beside the other small window.

Brock barely had time to register the fact that he hadn’t heard or seen the man move before three more men kicked in the back door, guns raised. Brock and Jack were on their feet in an instant, but Winter got there first.

He was vicious and calculating in his hits, striking at nerve points with deadly precision. Brock didn’t even see him pull the knife, only witnessing the aftermath as one of the men fell to his knees, hands clutching at his throat as blood poured from between his fingers.

It was all over in less than a heartbeat. “Jesus,” Brock breathed. Winter’s gaze landed on him and he did the last thing Brock ever expected him to do. He winked. “Not quite pal,” he drawled, that Brooklyn accent back in his voice.

Brock didn’t hesitate to ponder over that response. He beelined it out of the shack and into the snow. Hiking through deep snow drifts with a knee injury was excruciating and not something Brock would recommend, but he finally made it to where Hunter lay.

He pulled out his boot knife and sliced through Hunter’s bonds, rolling the man over. He wiped snow off the man’s face, checking him for injuries. When he got to the man’s abdomen, Hunter flinched and moaned. His eyes fluttered and then Brock was punched across the face. It was weak by the man’s normal standards, but still hurt.

“Hey, Hunter. Hunter,” Brock tried to calm the man, grabbing his wrists and pinning them across his chest. That just made him struggle harder. “Cameron!” Brock roared in his ear as Jack stumbled to a halt behind them, rifle tucked against his shoulder.

Hunter stilled under his hands, blinking owlishly. Brock frowned, noticing one pupil was bigger than the other. “Boss?” Hunter slurred, squinting up at him. “Why’r you so fuzzy?”

“You have a concussion,” Brock drawled. “Iz tha why m’ head hurts ss much?” Hunter asked, blinking as he tried to focus on Brock’s face.

“Probably,” Brock said patiently as Jack snorted behind him. He gave the man another quick once over before helping him to his feet. “What the fuck happened?” Brock asked as Jack took Hunter’s arm over his shoulder, baring his weight so Brock’s knee didn’t have to. “The jet blew and I thought..”

“I wazzn't in th jet,” Hunter interrupted, wincing as they started the hike back to the shack. “I alm’st waz, but I wazzn’t. I woke up inna tree!” Brock shook his head as a chopper roared overhead and Jenning’s voice snapped through the comms in his ear.

 

 

 

Hours later and they were landing in DC. Jack and Hunter were hustled off to medical while the rest of STRIKE went to debrief and go home. Brock was headed to join them, his knee now in a proper brace. He was watching as Winter was escorted away by four heavily armed men when Pierce approached him.

“Commander,” the man said with a slick smile. “Well done. Well done indeed. The Asset is certainly not easy to handle.” His eyes flicked to the bruising that had bloomed around Brock’s throat.

“We had a few….minor complications, but nothing we couldn’t handle, sir,” Brock said diplomatically. Pierce chuckled. “Yes well, a similar complication happened with his last handler. The outcome was very different.”

“Sir?” Brock asked, although he wasn’t really sure he wanted to know. He fell in step with the other man, trying not to limp as they began walking towards Pierce’s waiting SUV.

“He killed the handler.” Pierce said, as they reached the SUV. “Commander, I know you’re tired and anxious to get home, but I’d like to show you something first something.”

 

 

 

A few hours later and Pierce let Brock into the underground of an old bank vault. “This is where we keep the Asset when he is not in use.” Pierce explained. That sat ill with Brock. It made the kid sound like a tool, to be put on some back shelf when not needed.

Pierce led him through twisting corridors and into one of the vaults. A chair was bolted to the floor in the middle of the room. It was like a dentist chair, except with large metal claps along the arm pads. A strange looking device sat folded behind it. A few scientist-looking agents in white lab coats milled around, looking at files and poking at the equipment.

Before Brock had a chance to ask what this was all about, footfalls echoed behind them. He turned to see Winter being escorted in by four armed agents. He had been stripped of his gear, wearing nothing but sweat pants. Brock grimaced, seeing that the kid walked barefoot across the icy tile floor.

“We’ve already given him a heavy sedative,” Pierce reassured, misinterpreting Brock’s expression. “Otherwise he would be unmanageable after so much time without a wipe.”

“Wipe, sir?” Brock asked, trying not to stare at the swath of scar tissue that wrapped around the junction of Winter’s shoulder, where metal became skin. “You’ll see,” was all Pierce said as the men escorted Winter to the chair.

He looked so young. His shoulders were almost hunched in on themselves, like he was trying to look smaller than he was. This was not the same asset Brock had seen cooly drop three men in less time than it took a lesser man to blink

The men pushed Winter into the chair before retreating to a discrete distance. Winter’s eyes darted around the room frantically. They finally landed on Brock, and lit up with recognition. Brock swallowed, feeling Pierce’s eyes on him.

The scientists started swarming over Winter, taking temperatures and poking instruments at his metal arm. “Remarkable, isn’t he?” Pierce said, voice oily like he was describing his prize pedigree.

“Very, sir,” Brock said simply, clasping his hands behind his back.

“I was impressed with how you dealt with him,” Pierce continued. “I’d like you and your Alpha STRIKE agents to be his main support team, with you as his primary handler. What do you say, Commander?”

The man may have phrased it as a request, but Brock knew it was anything but optional. “I am honoured, sir.” Brock said, clasping his hands behind his back.

Pierce chuckled. “Honoured. Yes, it is an honour isn’t it?” His eyes flicked over Winter again. “The Fist of HYDRA,” Pierce continued. “He is the weapon with which we will win this war. But like any good weapon, he needs maintenance. Wipe him.”

Pierce stepped away as the scientists swarmed back over Winter. “It’s better for him this way.” Pierce explained with a genial smile. Brock swallowed and forced himself to watch as one scientist stepped forward with what looked like a mouthguard in one hand.

Winter’s eyes clocked it and something suddenly shifted. His flesh arm lashed out, slapping the mouthguard out of the man’s hand. There was an ear-splitting screech as Winter’s other hand crumpled deep gouges into the metal arm of the chair.

The agents reacted at once, bringing their rifles up to bare. “Hey, easy,” Brock said, taking a step forward. He kept his gaze on Winter, who looked up at him with wild eyes.

“Stand down,” Brock said, waving at the agents to lower their guns. He took a few more steps, crouching down in front of the frantic asset. “Hey, what’s going on?”

“Hey,” he said, snapping his fingers under Winter’s nose when the kid didn’t respond. Winter startled, his eyes snapping from the floor to Brock’s face. “What’s going on, kid?”

Winter mumbled something to quiet for Brock to hear. He could feel Pierce’s eyes drilling into the back of his skull, but he kept his focus on Winter. “What was that?” Brock demanded. Winter just shook his head, nervous energy rolling off him in waves. Brock swallowed. He didn’t want any part of this shit, but it looked like he had no choice. This was another test, he could feel it.

“We all have to do our part,” Brock said, barely convincing himself but not knowing what else to say. “And this is yours. It’ll be okay, yeah?” He hesitated, hating himself a little more with every word. “Trust me.”

It seemed to do the trick. Winter nodded, relaxing a little. “Okay then,” Brock said, standing and stepping back as the scientists came forward. “Very good, Commander,” Pierce said before leaning in to whisper in his ear. “Don’t get cozy with the pet names. It tends to mess with the programming.”

“Of course sir,” Brock said automatically, steeling himself as one of the scientists held the mouthguard out to Winter. This time, he obediently opened his mouth and the man slide it into place.

Two more men took him by the shoulders and pushed him back into the chair. The restraints clamped down around around his biceps and wrists. Winter flinched, his breathing getting erratic. Brock felt himself starting to panic. What the fuck did he just convince the kid to subject himself to?

The chair whirred as it tilted back and the head plates clamped down on either side of Winter’s head, electricity sparking. Brock managed not to flinch as the screams started, echoing through the room. It was gut-wrenching, a sound only made by a dying animal.

Pierce gestured to Brock, walking back into the hall. Brock followed, hands clenched tight behind his back.

Later, after Pierce had fully briefed him on the Winter Soldier’s protocol and the medics had gotten a proper look at his knee, Brock felt like he could still hear the screaming as he walked out into the cold winter air.

 

 

 

 

Jack had long been home by the time Brock returned. He was curled up in bed, book in hand, with his arm neatly bandaged. Brock stumbled through a quick shower and pulled on soft sweatpants before climbing in beside Jack.

He curled up on his side, his back to Jack. He felt dirty, a kind of grime a shower couldn’t wash away.

An arm slipped under Brock’s head and he found himself being pulled over against a muscular chest. A hand carded through his damp hair and Jack’s chest rumbled as he asked quietly, “You wanna talk about it?”

The whole sordid ordeal of what happened in the bank tumbled from Brock’s lips. Jack was quiet for a long time after he finished, hand gone still against Brock’s head. “What do you wanna do?” He asked gently.

All Brock wanted to do was grab Jack and run. Run and never look back. If he was being completely honest with himself, he’d grab Winter too. But they couldn’t. They didn’t just get to walk away. Once HYDRA had you, it never let go.

Brock always did what he had to in order to stay alive and see another day, and now he had Jack to protect as well. He wasn’t about to add extra jeopardy to their already precarious life expectancy.

“What we always do,” Brock said softly. “We survive.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Russian Translations:
> 
> Cказочная страна - Dreamland  
> отступить, солдат - Stand down, Soldier  
> Какова миссия - What is the mission?
> 
>  
> 
> Comments and feedback are my fairy dust, they make me fly!! 
> 
> And oh my god, you guys! Year 2013 is done! The next year gets crazy, as it is the year of Captain America, The Winter Soldier movie. So stay tuned!!


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